


Anne 2.0.

by mandaree1



Category: Amphibia (Cartoon)
Genre: 2nd person perspective, Anne being a buff feral gal, Hey remember that time Anne got her arm broke, Tfw ur friend has had character development, That was pretty messed up amiright
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:28:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25932895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandaree1/pseuds/mandaree1
Summary: "Ah," said Anne, sounding embarrassed. "Noticed that, did you?"You trace a thumb down the line on her arm. You recognize, dully, that it's a scar, same as the few divots dimpling around it like freckles, but your mind can't process it as reality. Scars were supposed to be cool- over the bridge of a nose or across the eye, never something like this. "That looks like it hurt," you say, effectively not expressing any of your train of thought.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 149





	Anne 2.0.

Anne is different now. It's little, insignificant things.

Polly rides her head like this is a normal occurrence; and, judging by the flat patch of her gnarled hair, it is. Pollywogs are a fairly sizable entity to add to the cranium, but she doesn't even twitch. Then Sprig is on her shoulder, and that doesn't stop her either, and it occurs to you that, _huh, maybe Anne got buffer._

They bring out heaps of food for dinner, most of which are things Marcy has deemed her favorites. The typical bits of giant shrimp, toasted nightcrawlers, mushrooms, and other things. Frogs from Frog Valley tend to eat a more vegetarian diet, you know, supplemented with the odd small insect. Anne downs cricket legs and you relax a little, knowing she hasn't been starving herself.

These sorts of differences are things you have as well. You can climb and fight now. You can eat bugs now. But it's strange to see someone else of your species going through the same changes. The new Anne isn't any better than old Anne, and there's no such thing as a _worse_ Anne. It's just... Anne 2.0.

Then you find the sword, and it's not so tiny anymore.

"Huh," you say, because finding weapons in weird places has become commonplace as of late. You pick up the blade, feeling the edges and chinks in the metal. "This needs a good cleaning."

Anne appears beside you in an instant, crouching down. Holes are beginning to make themselves at home in her shoe. "Eh. It's not worth it. The metal is weak near the hold."

"Pommel," you correct absentmindedly.

"Grip," she shot back. "The pommel is the bit on the end." Anne reaches into the chest and pulls out another sword, this one in a bright yellow scabbard. " _This_ is the moneymaker."

"Pommel is the cooler name."

"Oh definitely." Anne calmly unsheathed it, revealing a blade in far better condition. "I got this off a newt who basically kidnapped me, Sprig, and Polly and taught us how to break into a train. He had pretty good taste in weapons, the jerk."

You twirl the one in your hand. Well, you try to. You get halfway before fumbling it back into the box. You snatch it back up. "What about this one?"

Anne shifts, uncomfortable. "Stole it off a Toad Guard."

"Sweet. Double exp for creativity."

"I fought Sasha with it."

The joy leaves you in an instant. You gently set the sword aside, sick at heart. "Oh."

Anne winced. "I didn't- it's not like I'm keeping it because I like it, okay? It's a just-in-case sword."

"I have five arrow wristbands in my satchel," you admit. They _look_ cool, and they _are_ cool, but they can be a little impractical for tumbles. "I break like nine a week. _Totally_ get it."

Appeased, Anne returned the blade to its sheathe and set it inside the chest, going to close it with her spare hand. An indent caught your eye, and before you had the time to consider personal space you had her right arm in your hand, looking it over.

"Ah," said Anne, sounding embarrassed. "Noticed that, did you?"

You trace a thumb down the line on her arm. You recognize, dully, that it's a scar, same as the few divots dimpling around it like freckles, but your mind can't process it as reality. Scars were supposed to be cool- over the bridge of a nose or across the eye, never something like this. "That looks like it hurt," you say, effectively not expressing any of your train of thought.

"Meh. Frogs have, like, wicked good country healing. I can still use it and everything." Anne flexes her fingers, and it hits you then that this is a triumph. Having control of her dominant hand is a triumph now. Back home, success was measured in not getting hit in dodgeball. "Got hit with a flail. Morning star? I dunno words."

"Flails have chains connecting them to the base."

"Morning star, then. Maybe? It was spikey and it hit me. Snapped this sucker like it was a piñata." She shook her arm out, as if shaking away memories. "It hurt a lot at the time, but like I said. Crazy hick medicine. If I was back home, I'd probably still be in physical therapy."

"If you were home, you never would've gotten hit," you say, quietly. You love it here. You love everything about this place. But that doesn't make it any less dangerous. Home... sure, it had normal, Earth issues, but the chances of getting hit with a _spikey thing_ by a _toad_ on Earth were much more manageable.

Anne shrugs. "Then I never would've met the Plantars, or anyone else in Wartwood." The girl's fingers went around her own wrist, squeezing. "Besides. It was all stormy and windy, and it's _easily_ the coolest I've ever looked. Getting a cast and some gross sap is worth it."

The chest closes with a creaky _plunk_.

"You really _have_ changed," you marvel, watching with unbridled curiosity as the scar settled into the crook of her arm like a contented cat. It only gets louder the more you look at it.

"So have you," Anne says with practiced ease, but her eyes are welling up even as she smiles, leaning forward to bump your forehead to hers. "I think we're a little messed up, Marybell."

The nickname feels like an open invitation to craft an inside joke out of a horrible situation. "We might be, Angle," you say, and you ignore how soggy your cheeks feel from the moisture, and you laugh harder than you've laughed in what feels like ages. Anne laughs too, leaning on the chest of swords and bad decisions, and things feel... _better._ Not great, but better.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no real excuse or reasoning abt this other than being like 'hey, remember that time Anne got her arm broken by a giant weapon? That must've hurt like crap' so here I am. Rip me.
> 
> -Mandaree1


End file.
